


My Beloved Is Mine

by Whreflections



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood Drinking, Blood Injection, Bloodplay, Dark, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Mark of Cain, Possessive Behavior, Post-Episode: s09e18 Meta Fiction, it starts before that, largely at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you kick your puppy and leave him in the street, moose, you shouldn't be surprised when someone else takes him home."  </p><p>Dean knows next to nothing about the mark of Cain but Crowley, he knows enough for both of them.  Or, at least, enough to use it to his advantage.  In theory, the mark bound Cain to Lucifer.  By the same rules, it should bind Dean to him, if he can learn how to use it.  </p><p>All Dean knows is that if he's lost Sam, there isn't much that matters.  </p><p>About Sam, they're all wrong, Sam himself included.  No matter what he said, when he's faced with losing Dean, he won't go down without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so, this may be a slightly longish note but I'll try to keep it short-
> 
> 1\. This story is fucked up. It's dark, and while Dean does consent to everything he does with Crowley, because of the nature of the mark of Cain in this story, his consent is always dubious once he takes the mark. There'll be more about exactly what that means in the second chapter but for now, just know that the mark is influencing his behavior and to a degree coloring his decisions. Dean has no idea, and part of his pull toward Crowley genuinely does come on its own...but that's all I'm gonna say about that. Just. Dub-con. I wanted to make sure everyone was warned. 
> 
> 2\. I feel to lighten the darkness of this(and in case anyone is reading whose OTP happens to be Dean/Crowley), that I should say that however much the first part of this seems like it's a story about Dean and Crowley, in the end it's chiefly a story about Sam and Dean. Even some of the Dean/Crowley is about Sam/Dean. 
> 
> 3\. This is my first time writing Supernatural in like...damn, four years. I'm super fucking happy to be back. I'm also super nervous. This is fucked as shit, but I really hope you guys enjoy it. 
> 
> 4\. Part two will either be up later tonight or tomorrow.

The first time Dean took a needle to his arm for Crowley, he did it on the side of Missouri Route 146.  It wasn’t so hard to justify, not even then.  Everything Crowley had said about the First Blade had seemed to hold up; they were well on the way, and he looked like shit.  He was pale, shaky, jonesing hard no matter how he’d tried to deny it last time Dean had asked.   Given the situation, bolstering Crowley’s dependence on him seemed not to have too many detriments.  Or, so Dean told himself as he pushed the needle in.

What his answer might have been a week before or a week after, he couldn’t particularly bring himself to care. 

So he drew his blood, watched as Crowley injected himself with trembling fingers.  Crowley pulled the needle from his skin slow, enough that Dean could see the slight catch as it left his body. 

“So.  Dean.  What do I owe you?”

“You can get your ass back in the car and we can get goin’.  May be in Missouri but we’ve got a ways left to go.” 

“Is that all?”

“Spit it out, Crowley.”

Crowley flipped the needle between his fingers, held it out to Dean plunger first.  “Nothing.  I thought this was a transaction, but hey if it’s charity, I’ll take it.” 

“Just get in the goddamn car.”

Crowley waited past the closing of the door, past the turn of the engine and half a mile before he continued, as if they’d never paused.  “You’re just not very good at this business, are you?  It’s not a proper drug deal without payment.”

“Nothin’ proper about any of it.”

“Are you telling me there’s _nothing_ illicit you want from me, Dean?  Nothing at all?  No one’s that boring; certainly not you.”

“The only thing I want from you we’re on the way to, so considering—“

“Simpler than that.  You know, if we’d done this in an alley, a man with more experience in deals in your position…well.  It’s a little easier to kneel on concrete than gravel.  Might be best if we did use an alley.” 

“Alright, enough.”  Dean took his eyes off the road long enough to glare.  His hands clenched and slid against the wheel. 

“Ah, see?  Sex.  Always the right button to push, especially since you’re not—“

“We’re not talkin’ about this here, Crowley.  In fact, we’re not talkin’ about this at all.  I made a choice, you got your fix, and now I need you to _focus_ ; you got it?” 

“Absolutely.”  Had he not seen it in the corner of his eye, Dean still could’ve heard Crowley’s smile. 

********

That first time, it came in the in-between, after Dean had left Sam but before Sam had rejected him in every way that mattered.   The second, it came after in every respect.  After Sam, after he’d taken the mark. 

Dean drew the second syringe by the light of his baby’s headlights, 2:30 AM.  Crowley had called and he’d answered, and they leaned on the hood and talked about the Tonga Trench and Crowley’s minions and Casablanca.  They talked, and Crowley loosed his tie with unsteady hands, and Dean rolled up his sleeve without being asked. 

The needle stung sharply on withdrawal, a side effect of his distraction.  Blood beaded above the surface inside his elbow.  Dean ignored it as he handed the syringe over, only bothered to raise his hand to wipe it away on the cuff of his sleeve after Crowley was already engaged in his injection.  Even so, he moved faster than Dean had cared to anticipate, fast enough to catch Dean’s wrist and push his hand away. 

“Watch it, darling.  You should know how it is.”  He switched his grip to Dean’s left arm, stretched it toward him slow enough that Dean didn’t reflex punch him, did nothing more than wait.  For that small victory, Crowley grinned.  His breath raised the hair on Dean’s skin.  “A junkie can’t afford to be wasteful.”

His mouth closed over the pinprick.  Dean should have pushed him away then.  The knowledge was present, all instinct and certainty.  Later, he would not be able to tell himself he didn’t know better; he knew that much for fact, but Crowley’s mouth was hot and wet.  His tongue lapped at Dean’s skin, desperation trapping his strokes somewhere between sensuous and timid.  This was the king of hell half playing at humanity, half playing him.  Or, perhaps in thirds- humanity, deception, and lust.  There was no reason it couldn’t be all of the above for Crowley, not when Dean couldn’t even begin to place the reasons behind his own acceptance. 

His hand fisted in Crowley’s tie, waiting. 

He should have pushed him away. 

********

In the past, Sam would have seen the bruise.  In the midst of research, maybe- the rise of Dean’s sleeve when he reached for a book or a beer could have given it away easily enough.  If he’d been careful, kept his sleeves down far enough, there was a chance he could have hidden  it a few hours but there would have been no long term shielding.  Sam would have pulled his shirt from his shoulders in one of their rooms, perhaps quick and rough but even so, not an inch of Dean’s body would escape his notice, his inventory. 

His Sam, he’d have found it, known it, and his eyes would have burned with a pain sharp enough to make Dean wish he could claw the evidence off his skin beneath his fingernails. 

In the end, Sam would have forgiven him.  He’d have gone to bed with his body mottled from Sam’s teeth, from the pressure of his enormous hands on Dean’s hips.  He’d have woken up sore, and felt clean. 

Dean woke up at the kitchen table, his unshaven cheek pressed uncomfortably against the mark of Cain.  Sam had been down last night to grab a few beers, had seen Dean’s arms spread out plain, Dean’s outer shirt draped back across his chair.  If he had noticed Crowley’s handiwork(and he hadn’t; Dean had to believe he hadn’t), he hadn’t said a word. 

Two days later, Dean text Crowley.

**We can’t be doing this all the time; I’m not a goddamn blood bank.  But if you want it, I’ll meet you outside tonight.**

Dean didn’t come up until past three, but it seemed the king of hell had time to wait. 

He took a half full syringe, shot up, fell to his knees when he saw Dean pull out a knife.  Crowley licked his lips, for once kept silent and asked with his uneven breath instead of his words.  Dean cut shallow but enough, just enough that Crowley could fasten his lips over the wound and suck greedily, obscenely.  His moans resonated against Dean’s bones, up his arm, back down to settle in his chest, his stomach.  It was too hot out there above the bunker, far too hot for Kansas early spring. 

Crowley kept his hold on Dean’s arm when he finished, swayed forward just enough that for half a second it seemed almost accidental that his left hand came to rest over the front of Dean’s jeans.  He was half hard beneath Crowley’s palm; without the touch, he might have been able to hide it.  He might, if he’d wanted to.  These days, Dean rarely actively sought decisions.  They found him readily enough. 

Crowley’s fingers flexed.  “Is this how I’ll be paying you, then?” 

Dean stiffened, his arm locked halfway between striking out and clenching against his side. 

“So high strung, squirrel.  There’s no need.  I told you; I strike a fair bargain.  And despite how much I know you enjoy these little meetings, I have no intention of staying in your debt.  Therefore,”  Crowley slid his hand up, grasped Dean’s buckle.  “—do we have a deal?”

There was his exit, right before him.  If he said no, he could go back downstairs, get drunk, pass out and maybe never, ever do this again. Crowley looked up at him, the faintest hint of blood smeared at the corner of his lips.  Dean swiped his thumb across it, breathing hard, his breath misting just a little in the lingering cold. 

“Just get it done.” 

Crowley smiled, flicked open Dean’s belt.  Dean looked up, out into the trees, up at the patchy cloud cover over the stars, anywhere but at the man between his legs.  It was easy enough to tell himself that if he looked down, he’d change his mind.  Surely he had at least that much conviction left in him, even now. 

********

The fourth time, Crowley kissed him when he rose from his knees.  He tasted like blood and come and ash and Dean hated how little he cared.  He dug his fingers into the lapels of Crowley’s jacket, kissed back until his lips were almost as red and swollen as Crowley’s were after their stretch around his cock.  He left Crowley hard, walked alone back into the bunker.  In the library, all the tables were vacant of Sam.  Dean wasn’t sure whether or not he was relieved, not even sure which answer would make him feel more ashamed. 

The fifth time took place out behind the pool hall, after he’d saved Crowley’s ass.  He knew Crowley had shot up in the bathroom, knew it wasn’t enough by the way his eyes pleaded when Dean almost got into the car to drive away.  The first shot might not have been enough but the second carried Crowley past his usual high, far enough that when he rose from his knees he nuzzled into Dean’s neck, traced kisses along the surface above the veins beneath. 

He had to know their depth, know just how much skin and muscle he’d have to part to rip them out in his teeth.  He had to know; he’d done enough of it.  Dean shut his eyes, swallowed hard as he reached up to get a grip of Crowley’s jacket. 

“C’mon.  That’s enough.”  Enough, too much, but he wasn’t pulling Crowley away.  Sam had read him something once, some bit of science about human bodies and intimacy, on the craving for touch.  Dean had scoffed; Sam had rolled over and flatted his palm against Dean’s stomach, kissed his chest below the pentagram.  In his mind, Dean was certain- if he craved anything, if his body required anything, it wasn’t touch itself, it was Sam.  But now there was Crowley, the brush of his lips, the taste of scotch and sex and blood he knew he’d find if he dipped his head down for a kiss.  (And he wanted just that; there was no denying it, not in his own head.) 

Crowley had a point, maybe.  Just a little.  A junkie was a junkie, the addiction irrelevant.  He could go home and scrub his skin raw and never feel clean and still, he’d let Crowley get his hands all over him again, first chance he got. 

Crowley’s hand traced down Dean’s right arm, the pressure light until he reached the mark.  There his grip tightened, the pad of his thumb pressing solidly against raised skin.  Beneath his touch Dean could feel a flash of searing heat, so white hot for a moment that it took his breath.  His head knocked back against the brick, a startling moan leaking from his throat as the sensation ebbed.  Since the blade had left his hand his arm had ached for it, for the relief of its weight against his palm and the return of the heady pleasure that had swept through him as he’d taken Magnus’ head.  The pain had varied, hit peaks that rattled him, but even at its best the dull ache without the blade had remained a constant until now.  In the aftermath of the initial burn of Crowley’s touch, no trace of the mark’s pain remained. 

Mingled with the alcohol, the orgasm, the blood he’d given, the sudden relief was intoxicating, transporting.  Dean struggled against the heavy weight of his tongue, moaned again before he could speak at the lap of Crowley’s tongue just below his jaw, over his jugular. 

“What’re you doing?”  The words dragged, too slow, too little accusation. 

“Easing your pain, darling.”  His whisper was scratchy, roughed up a little further from the burn in his throat from taking Dean’s cock deep.  Dean’s grip tightened until his nails dug into the fabric of Crowley’s suit.  “D’you want me to stop?” 

Crowley’s thumb traced the mark, his pressure firm.  Reflexively, Dean’s grip shifted to Crowley’s back, hauled him closer.  He could feel the press of Crowley’s cock against his hip, catch the stutter in his breath as Dean shifted to rub against him. 

Nothing hurt, nothing at all. 

Turning his head, Dean caught Crowley’s mouth in a kiss, quick and brutal.  Crowley’s lip split.  Blood welled against Dean’s teeth and Dean latched on, sucking, forcing back the flash of memory of Sam on the floor, blood smeared across his face.  There was a sharpness to the taste of Crowley’s blood and Dean chased it, wondering.  Somewhere in that blood, there was a bit of his own.  Somewhere deeper, perhaps, there might linger a trace of Sam. 

After that night, Dean lost count.

********

Dean answered Crowley’s call in his room, voice low and with his back against the door to keep it shut though he knew Sam wasn’t listening. 

“Yeah, what?”

“I need you; now.”

Dean’s throat tightened.  “Not happening.  We’re leaving on a hunt in like an hour; I can’t just disappear.”

“Yes well despite your ego, not every contact I make with you is about your cock.”

“No, it’s usually—“

“Or any other aspect of your anatomy; will you _shut up_ and listen?”  By way of response, Dean gave him silence.  “Thank you.  I’ve got problems.  One of my lieutenants has gone rogue.  He’s disobeyed too many orders and I’ve had a rumor he just might be out for my head.”

“If Abaddon’s gotten to him, maybe we can—“

“No this isn’t Abaddon’s work; I think wants hell for himself.  I can’t risk that, and I doubt you want to risk the development of another faction to worry your little heads about.  Do I have your attention now?” 

Dean let out a breath, paced until he could collect his thoughts.  The face Sam made every time he caught Dean in any sort of contact with Crowley had gotten progressively worse, but in this they might at least be on the same page.  Two contenders for hell was already too many; with the fight raging over heaven an increase battles waged on earth was everyone’s problem. 

“Yeah, ok.  I’ll go tell Sam; we can—“

“No Sam.”

“Then I stay here.” 

The phone crackled, static on the line or fabric against Crowley’s cell.  Dean could imagine the crinkle of his jacket, the way he’d hunch forward into the call like it mattered, like it helped.  “I can’t ask anyone else.  I can’t have anyone else knowing I’m vulnerable, but this upstart, he’s tough, and I think we both know I’m not 100%.  If you bring Sam, he’ll put too much energy into finding a way to take me out while your back is turned and that won’t help anyone.  You’ll be left facing Abaddon alone and even _with_ the blade, you know I can help you.”  His voice dropped, close and quiet.  “Dean, you know I’ll help you.  If nothing else, I know I’ve proven that much.  I just need you to keep me alive.” 

Crowley’s lies always managed to carry a remarkable ring of honesty, enough to muddy all certainty.  There was fear in his voice to be sure but was it the blood or all art?  And how much did he care?  If he was honest with himself, the minute Crowley asked for help, hadn’t he known what his answer had to be? 

Dean hit the door hard, though it didn’t rattle.  The men of letters built to last.  Dean’s knuckles throbbed. 

“Alright.  Where are you?” 

“Caldwell.  Idaho.  How soon can you-“

“Soon as I can; keep your head down.” 

********

Crowley turned the First Blade in his hands, slow and easy, without watching.  Instead, he watched Dean watching him. 

“All I’m saying is, Ronald’s a dangerous bastard.  I think we’d all feel more secure if you had this, but _I_ won’t feel secure afterward unless we have a deal.”

“I came here to help you.  If anyone’s in a position to bargain, lemme tell you, it’s not you.” 

“Isn’t it?  Killing him is in both of our best interests, and I know you want this blade.  Look at you; can’t take your eyes off it.”

Dean turned away, deliberate and smooth.  He could feel its presence still, a burning itch at the back of his neck. 

“Your epic stubbornness isn’t the point.  You want this, and it’d do you good have it in your hand again.  You know I’m right.”

“I don’t know jack about that damn thing.”

“You _know_ I’m right.”

He did; he could feel it.  “What kind of deal are you asking for?”

“Simple.  I give you the blade, you do the killing, you give it back, and not to my corpse.  Agreed?”  Dean nodded, jerked only a little when Crowley’s hand curled against the back of his neck.  “Then seal it.” 

As they kissed, Crowley pressed the hilt of the First Blade into Dean’s palm.  The connection swept through him, a rush of power and awareness so strong that for that instant he understood why Crowley took the needle; he was certain of it.  They broke apart, breathing, the flick of Crowley’s tongue a brush of heat as he licked his own lips. 

Dean took the blade fully into his hand, gripped Crowley’s tie in his left and kissed him again. 

********

“You know—“  Dean raised up on his elbow, the sheet falling away from his chest.  “If you’d cut back on the blood, you could keep your own damn hide out of the fire.” 

Crowley sighed as the blood hit his veins, dropped the syringe with a clatter before collapsing back against the pillows.  “I _could_.  But I won’t.  And be honest.”  He rolled his neck, sighed again at the stretch of muscle before he tilted his head to face Dean with a smirk.  “Would you really want me to?”

“Do you seriously think that’s even a question?”  It was, and they knew it, they both knew it, but Crowley let him lie.  For a heartbeat amusement flashed in his dark eyes but he quelled it, stroked his fingers through Dean’s hair.  Dean tried not to lean into it.  “You keep callin’ me in to save your ass, someone’s gonna notice.”

“Let them.  Let them spread the word about the damage you do with that thing; it’s all in our favor.  Besides, it’s no matter.  I’m not quitting.  Addiction is the spice of life.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s how that quote goes.”

“Do I care?”

“Do you ever?”

Crowley laughed, pressed his lips to the corner of Dean’s mouth, murmured against his cheek.  “Thank you.”  He anticipated the way Dean tensed, kneaded his fingers gently against Dean’s scalp.  “Easy, love; I mean it.  Some people actually appreciate being protected, you know.  Not everyone rebels against it.  I know what you do for me, and I appreciate it.  I do.”

It was a dig at Sam, plain and simple, and Dean couldn’t let it stand, he couldn’t, not even if it was true.  He pulled back, reached blindly for the edge of the sheet to tug it free of his legs.  “I should go.” 

Crowley hadn’t let go.  He dragged himself closer though Dean had moved away, mouthed filthy and wet at juncture of his neck and collar.  “Stay.  Stay, and you can have me however you like.” 

Dean hesitated, cursed himself for it.  He had learned young, in any confrontation, the moment you hesitated you were lost.  “Sam—“

“Isn’t waiting up for you, and you and I both know it.  So I can take you back now, and you can be ignored and drink yourself stupid.  Or,”  His lips brushed Dean’s ear, the scratch of his stubble sending a jolt across Dean’s skin.  “—you take what you want from me, and I take you back in the morning.  Face it, darling- he won’t even know you’re gone.” 

Probably not, and that just made it all that much worse.  “I don’t want anything from you.”  He said it, though he could muster no conviction.  They had fucked once already, fast and dirty.  If they did it again, he knew Crowley would put his hand to the mark, and for the span of a few minutes, the ache in his arm and the ache in his chest would both cease to function.  He wanted, _God_ he wanted. 

“Come now, haven’t we moved past all that?” 

The kiss Dean gave Crowley first was all punishment, rough to the point of violence, harder than he knew Crowley wanted when he was like this, the high of human emotion compelling him to seek pleasure outside of pain.  He gasped, arched into Dean anyway though the hand at the back of Dean’s head was still gentle, grasping and stroking with soft pressure.   

They kissed until Dean was on top of him, until he’d almost forgotten there been an offer for more than another round in Crowley’s request. 

“I know what you want.”  Crowley panted, words slipped between kisses.  “Even if you don’t.”  Before Dean could answer he turned his head, bared his neck and tapped just there with his fingers, right over the dots that had never quite healed.  The site of his first injections, of 7 syringes of Sam’s blood.  Dean hovered over him, breathing, waiting.  He knew how this exchange would go and still, he let it begin.  “It was different, the trials.  I tried to tell Sam; it bound us together.  I can’t get rid of him, not all of it.  Even without your blood, there’d be a little Winchester in me.  Question is, could you taste it?  Do you know how Sam’s blood feels on your tongue, Dean?” 

He knew the feel of Sam’s everything, the sting of his sweat, the grip of his hands, the girth of his cock. 

Crowley chuckled, licked his lips, made Dean wonder just what it was he saw in the face above him.  Was the lust that plain in his eyes, the need?  Disgusted, Dean’s eyes fluttered closed, his breath short and tight.  He couldn’t, he couldn’t, _God_ , of all the fucked up things he’d done-

Crowley’s hand clattered around on the bedside table, flailed until he found Dean’s pocket knife.  Crowley slid it still closed against his own neck, slow and teasing.  “Do it.  Right there.”

“You’re one sick son of a bitch, you know that?”  To Crowley or to himself, the words would be the same.  Dean took the knife, palmed it, hated that his palms were dry.  Of the two of them, perhaps his sickness was worse.  Crowley was a demon with a dash of humanity; in theory at least Dean was still a man. 

Crowley’s eyes were unreadable, dark and half lidded.  There could have been jealousy, there.  Jealousy, or desire, or pain.  Maybe all, maybe none.  Dean flipped the blade open, placed it.  Crowley swallowed, and his skin dented against the press of steel though it didn’t break through. 

“You can do it, love.  Not too deep.”

Not too deep, but not too shallow, either.  Blood seeped from the gash immediately, a steady flow, and Dean held the knife out to clatter on the hardwood floor before he put his mouth to it.  It pulsed against his tongue, thick and rich.  Beneath him Crowley writhed, cried out as pressed into the sweet pain of Dean’s teeth nicking the edges of the cut at the base of his throat. 

Crowley’s hands grappled against Dean’s hips, tugging him forward, sliding down to spread his thighs until Dean complied.  He was still slick, still worked open and he took Crowley’s cock with only a single hiss of pain.  Even that faded, wiped blank as Crowley’s left hand shifted to Dean’s forearm, his palm pressing flush against the mark.  Dean’s cock twitched, trailing wet across Crowley’s stomach.  He moaned, or maybe Crowley did; all Dean was certain of was the vibration, deep and hungry. 

They maneuvered around each other’s limbs, settling in with Crowley up against the headboard and Dean straddling his hips to find a better equilibrium.  After the kills Dean had made Crowley had taken him bent over the bed, his nails trailing sharp down Dean’s spine but they fucked now in a slow grind, restrained by the constants of Dean’s mouth on Crowley’s neck, Crowley’s hand on his arm. 

When the blood slowed it was Crowley that jerked Dean’s head away.  The kiss he took was messy, little more than a taste of his own blood on Dean’s lips before he pulled away.  He bit down hard on Dean’s shoulder, harder than Sam, enough to break the skin.  His hand clenched over the mark and Dean came with a sharp whine, his release spattering against Crowley’s chest. 

From there, his mind drifted, sensation blurred.  Crowley spilled into him and Dean slumped against his chest, though Dean wasn’t sure which came first.  He could feel the tremors of his body as if from a distance, withdrawn and dazed.  They moved together, uncoordinated, though there was a spike of clarity as Crowley’s fingertips trailed away from the mark.  He stirred, gravitated back toward Crowley’s retreating hand until it pressed against his spine, light but enough to stop him. 

“There, now.  Why don’t you rest?  You did well.  We’re safe here.  Sleep, and then I’ll take you home.” 

He should go now, he should.  He never should have stayed.  Crowley pulled away, leaving the bed empty.  Sam had always stayed, always, even when the AC in the motel was busted, even when he was angry.  Well, in the past, at least.  It was all another life away from here, a world beyond his reach.  Dean’s fingers closed around a fold in the sheet, tightening until his knuckles stung.  He could still see the blood of the men he’d killed on the back of his hand, the patterns left by the slice of the First Blade. 

Crowley was right; Sam wouldn’t miss him.  After all, he hadn't seemed to yet, and this certainly wasn't the first time.  Besides, he felt too heavy to move, too heavy to find his phone, his keys.  Maybe he’d sleep better here anyway, in a bed he’d never shared with his brother.  On his arm Dean could feel the mark starting to twinge and he folded in toward it, tucking his head into the crook of his arm just before he fell asleep. 

********

It was the sprawl of Dean across the bed that convinced him, the outright debauchery of the scene.  He lay on his stomach above the covers, stark naked with his head turned into his arm, not quite far enough to hide the taint of blood on his lips.  His shoulder and his back carried the marks of Crowley’s teeth, his nails.  The slick trail from his ass and the sticky sheen of his thighs would leave little open to interpretation. 

For all Crowley had accomplished, it seemed reasonable to assume his position was secure enough to gloat.  Just a little.  Well.  He was better at grand gestures than small ones, really.  And after all, it did make such a lovely picture.  It was an easy matter to snap it, easier still to send it to Sam.  No caption necessary, really, but he couldn’t resist. 

**Well, well.  Look what I found.  I don’t make a habit of taking in strays, but you know, I think I’ll keep him.**

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys, I'm a lying liar who lies. This got too long; third and final part will be up soon, but I couldn't make you guys wait anymore, lol

When Sam’s phone vibrated, he was sure it was Cas.  He didn’t get many messages these days, not even with Dean more often gone than he ever had been.  Hell, Dean used to text him from the damn gas station, stupid questions and pictures of stale donuts and possibly fresh pie. 

So even now, past midnight with his brother God knew where, he didn’t expect Dean, would’ve sworn to it even if the lack of expectation pained him.  (And it did, every time, more than he wanted, more than he cared to examine.) 

He wasn’t wrong, either.  It wasn’t Dean, but it wasn’t Cas either.  Crowley, 2 messages in quick succession.  Sam’s jaw clenched, strung tight in his hesitation.  Could be Abaddon; could be anything.  He couldn’t afford not to see. 

One click gave him an image of Dean, sprawled and sleeping in a bed they never would have been able to afford, soft sheets crumpled beneath him.  He was naked and bloody, beautiful and too pale.  Sam’s stomach was caught in a sharp tug and burn, flicker fast before the rush of cold that quenched it.  It had been months and his response to Dean’s body was still there, all instinct, but he could take no genuine pleasure in seeing Dean like this.   

He swiped the messages away before he’d even finished skimming the message, jabbing Crowley’s name in his contacts with first too much force.  The call didn’t connect, and he tried again.  After a single ring, Crowley answered, his voice hushed. 

“That _was_ fast.  Waiting up for someone?” 

“What the hell have you done?”  He hadn’t meant to yell, he hadn’t, but it echoed around his room, hollowed fury.  The bunker swallowed the sound, and Crowley shushed him. 

“Keep your voice down; have a little respect!  He’s had a hard day.  Needs his rest.  Loud as you’re carrying on, even over the phone he just might hear you.”  

“If you—“  Sam choked, incapable of articulation.  His mind suffered the opposite difficulty, all too full of clarity.  Once, on a hunt, he’d stumbled on a demon who’d been a minion of Alistair’s in hell.  The words he’d gotten out in seconds that covered a fraction of what Dean had suffered in his time downstairs had been enough to give Sam nightmares for years, enough that Sam had stabbed the demon long past the crackle of the knife, past the point where the man’s chest had caved and run red down Sam’s wrists.  He’d never offered an explanation and Dean had never asked, but he washed the blood from Sam’s hands with cold water and the scrap of an old shirt.  Later, in the dark, he had felt the hesitation in Sam’s hands, murmured soft and low with his lips at the nape of his neck.  _Don’t think about it, Sammy.  Whatever that bitch told you, you know they lie.  Trust me._

Sam leaned against the bunker wall, breathing against the burn in his throat. 

_If this is remotely what it looks like, Crowley, I’ll tear you apart.  I swear to God._

_I should’ve killed you when I had the chance._

_I should have never let him go out alone._

No, no the last was for Dean, not Crowley.  Maybe no one, maybe only Sam himself. 

Crowley cleared his throat, a polite mockery.  “If I had finite minutes, you’d be irritating me.  Cat got your tongue?”

“Answer me.  What is this?”  Because maybe, maybe it was a hoax, maybe it was bait to make him rise, maybe-

“Sam, you surprise me!  I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to want the play by play- frankly you’ve always seemed rather the clumsy, jealous type but if you insist I can-“

“What did you do to my brother?”  His voice wavered, catching on the word that should’ve tasted easiest. 

“Your brother?  Oh I’m sorry; must be some mistake.  Last I heard, you were an only child.” 

Sam’s hand slammed against the wall, quick and sharp.  The sting against his palm was steadying, enough to help him breathe.  “I swear to God Crowley, if you don’t tell me where you’ve got him-“

“Where _I’ve_ got him?  I don’t think you understand; I didn’t send you a hostage notice.  It’s more a…celebratory announcement.”  His voice had changed; Sam could hear it.  A little rough, a little rich, full of arrogance and humor.  “If you kick your puppy and leave him in the street, moose, you shouldn't be surprised when someone else takes him home.  You should be grateful, even.  Poor little lost thing like that, something terrible could’ve happened to him.  I’m sure even you wouldn’t want that.” 

Sam could feel his face twist, his unseen expression terrible in his glare against solid concrete.  “He’s not a dog; he’s a person you sick—“

“Save it.  Dog or man, you and I both know what he’s like so let’s be honest with each other, Sam.  You kicked him out—“

“I _never_ -“

“—and I took him in.  Hasn’t been easy; you did a lot of damage, but for a project of this underlying quality I can handle a few repairs.  One man’s trash…well, you know how it goes.”  Sam caught the clink of ice on glass, the hesitation as Crowley sipped.  “We might be at odds here, but you have to admire my brilliance.  Hell hasn’t had a true guard dog since Cain dropped off the map, but I never lost sight of the possibilities of it, all that wasted potential.  I started to think, if Lucifer handpicked his pet, why couldn’t I pick mine?”

“So this is the mark.  You did do this.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.  The mark doesn’t make his choices for him, Sam.  It just…opened his eyes to another option.  Reminds him where he belongs.  Where he’s needed.  Loved, even.  I can take good care of him, better now than ever, really, since I—“

“You could never—“

“No, I care for him, I do, really.  Enough to be fond of him at least, and that’s all it takes.  You might have taken psychology, but I think you’ve forgotten a bit about successful conditioning.  With Dean, it’s been all too easy.  You and the mark provide the pain, I provide the relief, and the positive reinforcement.  He kills to protect me, and I reward those instincts.  All I showed you was the preliminary results.  Give me a few years, and I’ll be the safest thing he knows.  Which is to say, Sam, that what I sent you was an example of a foregone conclusion that you need to accept.”  The words twisted into a growl, deep and heavy.  “Dean will never turn on me, not now.  You’ve lost.  He’s mine.  And I have to say, I’m rather enjoying my winnings.” 

Bile rose in Sam’s throat, a sickly sting.  He swallowed against it.  “Go to hell.  When I find Dean—“

“Oh there’s no need to worry about that.  He’ll be home tomorrow, of his own accord.  He’s no prisoner here.  Only a guest.” 

Sam hung up the phone. 

********

Dean came in just after nine the morning after, pale but with his hands clean.  All that Sam had seen of the marks on his skin were hidden by his shirts, no pain visible, no hitch in his step.  Sam met him in the library, perched on the edge of a table.

“Hey.  Where were you?”  It came out like an accusation even though he’d rehearsed it as curiosity, mild, touched with worry. 

Dean graced him with a cursory glance.  “Chasing a lead on Abaddon; didn’t pan out.”

“I could’ve gone with you.”

“It was nothing; knew it might be.”

“You could’ve called, Dean.”

Dean laughed under his breath, short and sharp.  “Cause you’re so worried?  How many missed calls do I have from you again?  Oh, wait, you never—“

“Dean, we need to talk.” 

For that, Dean stopped.  His eyes were dark, shoulders tight.  For now, Sam would find no way in.  “Talking’s the last thing we need.  Right now, I need a shower, and then I’ve got work to do.  I’m sure you do too.”

Dean’s boots echoed down the hall and Sam caught himself counting the steps, judging the distance, blocking the image of Dean naked under hot water washing Crowley off his skin.  Sam swept his hand across the table, let out the breath he hadn’t meant to hold at the satisfying shatter of lightbulb glass. 

When the ensuing quiet grew too thick, he pulled out his phone and dialed. 

“Cas?  I need you to get here.”

“Sam,-“

He couldn’t afford to be postponed; not now.  His voice rose, more solid than he felt.  “Something’s wrong with Dean, and I need your help.  Please.” 

********

The problem with lore on the mark of Cain lie chiefly in its narrow focus.  Until now, the mark had claimed only one subject, hardly enough for extensive experimental data.  Castiel and the men of letters combined could tell Sam disturbingly little, though enough that Crowley’s bits could seep and expand to fit the cracks.

According to biblical lore, the bearer of the mark gained immortality.  Cain’s very existence seemed to bear that point out.  The bond between the one who carried the mark and the current possessor of hell was another certainty, affirmed by Castiel’s reluctant confirmation.  What precisely that entailed Sam and Cas were equally uncertain, though Castiel was adamant that the bond could be overpowered by a stronger tie, a better hand of cards. 

Collette was the proof, years of conditioning undone by a single woman.  Cain’s soulmate, the first he’d met in all his long years.  Her success was Sam’s hope, his only remaining play. 

Those were facts, and still, Castiel tried to temper Sam’s hopes.  He took Sam’s hand where it lay against the open pages of a crumbling encyclopedia, a gesture that would’ve been more human if he hadn’t used both hands, hadn’t held on so tight.

“You have to understand, Sam, what Collette did she achieved with Lucifer caged.  If he had been free and able to go to his weapon’s side, we don’t know how the story would have ended.”

“I do.”  And he did, he knew he did, even if the thickness in his voice made him sound unsure.  For his brother’s sake, he had denied Lucifer.  If he could do it, so could Dean. 

“You _don’t_.  And I don’t want to see you walk into this blind.” 

“So you think we should let Crowley have him?  Just let Dean go?”  Sam’s vision blurred and he closed his eyes.  He hadn’t cried since Kevin. 

“No, I don’t.”

“Because I won’t do it.  I won’t.” 

“I know, Sam.  Neither would I.” 

“Then what are you saying, Cas?”

“I’m saying…”  He could feel Cas’ exhaustion in his grip, the ebb of the sigh that escaped him.  “You have to try.  But even if you succeed, Sam, the damage the mark does is extensive; it took Cain years to even begin to control his bloodlust and even then, he remained a dangerous man.  So long as he bears the mark, Dean will be half weapon himself, bound to the blade in ways I can’t even begin to understand much less explain.  And I very much doubt the pull to Crowley will ever fully leave him.” 

“He’s still Dean.  If that’s the best we can do, I’ll take it.  I’m not gonna leave him to Crowley.” 

Castiel’s laughter was soft, unexpected.  He anticipated Sam’s question, it seemed, before Sam could even look up. 

“It’s just something Dean said to me, years ago.  That he would take you as is, addicted, high on demonic power.  At the time, I couldn’t understand it.  And I helped him anyway.” 

Sam laughed, free of humor, a gesture of empathy.  Over the table, he met Cas’ eyes.  “So you’ll help me.”

“I’ll do what I can to stave off Crowley.  The rest has to be up to you.” 

********

Sam’s next attempt at conversation went as poorly as his first.  He tried, Dean left.  Crowley sent Sam a clip of sound, detached from all reference.  It didn’t matter; Sam would have known the sound of his brother anywhere.  Dean whimpered, sharp and needy.  The last time Sam had heard that sound, Dean had been beneath him, his legs spread wide, his body arching as Sam’s cock teased against him without sliding in. 

_Fuck, Sammy, please, please_

In a storage room down the hall from Crowley’s old holding tank, Sam took a table apart with his bare hands, bashed the pieces until they shattered.  By the time Dean got home Sam was ready to meet him the door, his bloodied knuckles rinsed but not bandaged. 

In the time he’d taken to think, Sam had decided on a pinch of truth.  At least.  But Dean came in without a coat, neck exposed, a red circle on the left side that might as well have been fucking neon.  There was no room left in Sam for subtle pinches of truth after that. 

He stepped up to Dean like he knew he’d be allowed, like he still had the right, cupped his hand against Dean’s jaw to tilt his face and give Sam a better look.  He hadn’t meant to, not really; he didn’t think, he moved.  For an instant they both froze, Dean’s breath slow and measured in its skim against the inside of Sam’s arm. 

Sam unglued his throat.  “Something you want to tell me, Dean?” 

“Yeah.”  His voice was low, whiskey rough.  Sam’s stomach jolted, though he knew it shouldn’t.  In that tone, with that set line of his neck, his shoulders, nothing good ever followed.  “Mind your own damn business.”  It stung as much as Dean meant it to, enough make Sam pull away.  Dean’s utter stillness broke only with Sam’s fingertips clear, his head cocking up to look at his brother.  “I mean, that is what this is, right?  Business?  So if we’re professionals, me and you, then so long as I don’t bring them here, so long as I leave it off the road, it’s nothing to you what I do, who I see outside the job.  Isn’t that what you asked for?” 

Sam’s jaw worked, and he tempered himself down almost to a whisper.  “Maybe.  Maybe I did.  But it’s not what I want.  Not anymore.  It never really was, I just—“

“Well, then you shoulda been more careful, cause I gotta tell you, this works.”

“Dean,-“

“Hey, I mean it.  You asked for this; I’m just following through.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t ask—“  Sam cut himself off, caught on the arrogance of the words he’d almost said.  _I didn’t ask for you to move on.  I didn’t think you could._   Angry(at himself or at Dean, he wasn’t sure), he tried again.  “So that’s how it is?  Almost nine years of the two of us, and you can put it past you just like that?” 

Dean was on him lighting fast, arm heavy against Sam’s chest as he slammed him back into the nearest pillar.  The stone was hard, unyielding, but it was the pressure in Dean’s grip that took his breath, forced it gasping from his chest.  He had fought Dean a dozen times, grappled without honest intent more times than he can count, but in that grip there was strength in Dean’s arms he’d never felt, a foreign power.  For all the research he had done in the mark, no amount of it had ever made it so crystal clear that had he chosen, this Dean could crush him in the palm of his hand. 

“Don’t.  Don’t you dare.”  If there was conflict in Dean, his voice didn’t betray it.  It wasn’t in his iron grip or the set of his lips, but Sam was sure he caught a glimpse of it in his eyes on the release, a glimmer of genuine fear.  He stepped away from Sam winded, though the flash quick conflict had hardly taken enough out of him that he should have been.  “Look, you made your choice, Sam.  I’m just living with it.” 

“Dean, what I meant—“

“You say what you mean;  you always do.  And now I am.”  He turned his back, his words muffled as he walked away.  “Leave it alone, Sam.  Just let it go.” 

********

If Sam had his way, he would have fallen asleep and dreamed something decent, something better.  Since the confrontation with Dean in the library he’d been able to feel the ghost of Dean’s hands against his arms, feel the way he’d wrapped Sam’s palm in the church, all smooth efficiency before he pulled Sam into his arms.

_We will figure this out; just like we always do.  Let it go.  Let it go, brother._

_Leave it alone, Sam.  Just let it go._

Neither of them had ever been very good at letting go. 

On his phone, Sam had kept the picture.  He should have deleted it, he knew that much, and still he pulled it up every night, stared until his stomach turned and he had to look away.  The more he looked, the less he was sure which part hurt more- that Dean had, in the end, turned away from him again; that Sam had left him vulnerable; that Crowley had taken advantage, had taken Dean into his bed and broken him open, left him there to sleep it off alone.

Dean hated to sleep alone.  He preferred the weight of Sam beneath him, against his back, across his chest.  He had hated it when they were boys, his complaints against Sam’s long teenage limbs entirely without venom; since hell, he’d hated it even more.  The nightmares still woke him, not that he admitted it.  His breathing shifted and he came awake too quick, reached for Sam, and then his flask. 

Sam let the phone drop, rolled over and stared up at the pitch black of his ceiling.  Tonight, Dean wasn’t so far, not really.  Across the hall, a matter of feet and two doors.  He could go to him, knock on the door and try for a kiss and take his chances.  He could go and ask, lean into the frame of the door and force out the question that had burned in his mind since he’d realized that not every bit of this was Crowley, not every bit was the mark.

_Do you even think of me at all, when he’s fucking you?  How could you not?  And if you do, how do you go through with it?  How much of it really is the mark, Dean?  How much would you want without it?_

No matter the ending he found to all of this, those were answers Sam knew he didn’t really want.  Still, a part of him wished he knew, a part he hated almost as much as the lingering question of what he might feel to find out that it was Crowley, every bit of it, no part of it Dean himself.  He didn’t want that, not really; he couldn’t.  But the thought was in his mind, and that was damning enough.   

********

All his life, Sam had watched Dean kill.  He knew the deliberation of Dean’s movements when it troubled him, staccato efficiency, knew the effortless ease in his hands that could come when it didn’t.  Each piece was a part of him, as inseparable as any other, and Sam, he knew them all. 

Across the room Dean pinned the witch to the wall with one hand to his throat, the mark standing out stark against the flex of his arm.  He called back to Sam without looking away from the terror in the man’s eyes, his voice tight.  “Sam, you hurt?”

A little, a slash on his wrist, a twist in his shoulder that would need a little heat, a little rest.  He shook his head, though Dean couldn’t see.  “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.  I’m ok, Dean.” 

“Alright.”  He murmured to the man beneath his hand, dark and beautiful, almost soothing.  “For that, I’ll make this quick.”  And it was, little more than a heartbeat, finished in a single loud crack of bone.  Dean let the body flop to the floor like a limp stalk with the flower snipped, flexed his hand as he watched it collapse. The desire and elation rolled off him in waves.

Sam acknowledged neither.  He pressed his hand to Dean’s spine, light and careful, unwilling to startle him.  “Are you hurt?”

“What?”  Like a dog on the hunt, Dean’s eyes hadn’t left the unnatural bend of the man’s neck, not once. 

Sam’s hand clenched into the fabric of Dean’s shirt, tight.  “Dean, are you hurt?” 

Dean shook himself, pulled away.  There was a burn on his wrist, two coils of a stove eye.  Already, it was bubbling up.  “No.  Piece of cake.” 

“Yeah, but your arm—“

“I got it; thanks.” 

Maybe he did, but Sam reached anyway, caught Dean’s hand for just long enough that his fingertips grazed the wound. 

Sam was sure Dean shivered as he pulled away, barely perceptible, just under the skin.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. 

*******

Sam opened Dean’s beer first, set it down before cracking the cap on his own.  The rise in Dean’s eyebrows was slight when he looked up, a question without much curiosity.  “Thought we were working?”

“We are; you gonna get drunk off one more beer?”  Dean wouldn’t, he knew, not even though this was his fifth.  Not all the way, at least, but they hadn’t had dinner, and he’d seen Dean take at least one hit of his whiskey.  He might not be drunk, but he was a little looser, a little warmer.  Sam could work in small increments, if he had to. 

Dean took the beer, and Sam watched him drink while he read until he was almost finished, dregs swirling at the bottom of the glass.  Dean had slipped his jacket off, draped it against the back of the chair.  He was at as much ease as he was gonna be for the foreseeable future and Sam took his opening, leaned in from behind with his hands on Dean’s shoulders on the pretext of studying a table in the book. 

It was the most touch they’d had in ages, Sam’s palms spread wide over the thin cotton of his t-shirt, the muscle beneath knotted and tight.  Sam squeezed, carefully at first while he read out loud from the page.  When Dean didn’t shake him off, he fell silent, kneaded in earnest until he could feel the tension begin to seep away beneath his fingers.  Dean’s head tilted just a touch, so slight Sam might have imagined it.  It was no open invitation, no graceful arc of bared skin like Dean would have freely offered him before.  It was a crack in careful armor, nothing more.  Sam made use of it all the same.  

Even now, even like this Dean turned to meet him when he leaned in to claim a kiss.  Sam was deliberate, teased at Dean’s lips with his tongue with an insistence that could not be denied.  Dean let him in, passive though he made a sound so high and quiet Sam hardly heard it, even this close.  It went to Sam’s chest in a sharp stab of lust and hurt, spurred him to let go of Dean’s shoulders and take his face in his hands.  Dean was permitting him, now, but if he kissed him properly, if he did this right Dean would understand, he would answer, he would kiss back and Sam could take him to bed and in the morning, they could talk.  It was always easier like that, between them, always simpler to lead with action. 

Dean jerked away.  “No.” 

He couldn’t mean it, he _couldn’t_ , and still Sam let go like he’d been scalded.  He couldn’t mean it, but Sam would respect it, if he had to.  Sam’s hands curled around the top slat of Dean’s chair, a stabilizing force though Dean sat forward, his back away from even the brush of Sam’s knuckles.

“I can’t do it, Sam.  You said we’d keep hunting, and that I can give you, but _this_ …”  He shook his head, just once.  “It doesn’t mean the same thing to us anymore.  And that’s more than I can give.” 

“It doesn’t have to be like that.  Dean,-“

“Hey, I told you, I didn’t start this, but I—“

“And you’ve never, never in your life said something to me you didn’t mean?  Not out in front of that hospital?  Do you even remember the things you said to me that night?”  Sam pushed away from the chair, frustration and rage and fear giving him back enough will to move that he could circle around, face his brother.    “I was pissed, Dean!  Hell, I still am!  I believed every word you said in that church, just you and me, and then you lied to me, for _months_ , and you brought in an angel that killed Kevin, that could’ve made me kill _you!_  Didn't that possibility ever occur to you, or did it just slip your mind?"

Dean stood, snatched his gun from beside Sam's computer.  Dimly, Sam realized he probably should have been afraid, but this was Dean, his Dean.  He only feared that Dean might go before he could gain any ground.  (Well, not only.  There was fear reserved, too, for after he went, fear of where he might go, of how exactly he might burn off the anger thrumming hot in bone and muscle and blood.)  

“All I'm trying to say is we _are_  asking for the same thing, here.  I was mad.  I’m gonna be mad for a while, Dean, but I was wrong too, ok?  Me and you.  That’s it.  So when you say we don’t want the same thing from this—“

“I gave you that choice, Sam!  That was _me_ , and you didn’t take it.”  Dean looked right at him.  It didn’t feel anything like acknowledgement.  “You have any idea what that felt like?”

“I don’t know, Dean.  You have any idea what it feels like to have this picture in my head I can’t shake of Crowley all over you?”

Dean flinched, hard enough that for a moment, Sam almost regretted it. 

Dean turned, and maybe Sam could have caught him if he was faster, maybe he should have tried, but he had no words left, and Dean slammed the door behind him. 


	3. Chapter 3

_I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine...- Song of Solomon 6:3_

 

On the hood of the Impala, beside the crumbling white square that comprised the Macedonia Iowa Still Water Church of God, Dean finished getting properly drunk.  He hadn’t been sure there was enough Scotch left in the flask to get the job done, but with all the beer he’d had already a few quick and deep swallows had put him well on the way. 

He was almost finished when he remembered that it was Crowley that had refilled it, funneled it full of Craig while Dean slumped against the wall on the floor, exhausted and half listening, his body thrumming with the high of the kill, of Crowley’s touch against the mark.  When he’d looked down, he could still see the print of Crowley’s palm outlined on the inside of his arm, drying brown.  They had taken over a dozen men together, just the two of them.

Days later, miles away, and Dean was downing Crowley’s whiskey, washing Sam off his tongue with its sting.  The realization might have been enough to make him throw up, if he’d been willing to stand.  It was, at least, enough to make him stop.  He threw the flask hard, heard the metal skim across the asphalt like a skipping rock as he leaned back fully against the hood, the back of his head a soft thunk against the windshield. 

There had to be a hundred nights he’d laid up here with Sam, easy.  Even as kids they’d been drawn to the comfort of metal still warm from the sun and the engine, appreciated in the daylight but even better after dark.  When Sam was five Dean had dragged him up there in a motel parking lot in Georgia, pointed up over his little brother’s shoulder as he outlined the dots of the stars with the tip of his finger. 

_See, Sammy, that one, that’s Orion, the hunter.  And that’s Gemini; Bobby said they’re brothers.  Just like you and me._

It was only years later that he’d read the story, his last year of high school.  Pollux’s choice had come as no shock to him.  Given the chance, he’d have died to join Sam in the stars just the same.  His history teacher had read the myth as a tragedy, but all Dean had seen was the happy ending.  They’d been granted a piece of the sky together, an eternal blazing embrace.  Dead or alive, not much could top that. 

In the pocket of his jacket, Dean’s phone rang.  He whipped it out clumsily, his thumb heavy on the screen as he took the call without looking, pressed it to his ear.

“What is it, Sam?” 

“Is _that_ where you’ve been?  You don’t call, you don’t write…a man could start to feel a little forgotten.”  The teasing lilt to Crowley’s voice wasn’t enough to stop his insides from clenching.  Behind his eyes, he could still the look on Sam’s face as he’d said Crowley’s name.  The demon himself was the last person he felt like hearing from just now.  At least, mostly.  The mark felt differently; it pulsed at the sound of his voice, a sharp ache.  Dean rubbed it, hard and ineffective. 

“We’re on a case; I’m a little busy.  So unless you’ve got news, I’m gonna go.”

“No news to interest you, I’m afraid.  But if you’d like me to come pick you up, I could—“

“Not tonight.”  The better answer would’ve been, _not ever_.

_Not ever; go to hell._

_Not ever again; I’m done.  We’re done.  We have to be done._

“Could have you back by morning.  Hell, I could have you back in hour.  Or I could meet you in the parking lot; where did you say you were?” 

“Iowa, unspecified.  And I said no.” 

“Suit yourself.  I’ve got blood enough to last me, in case you were worried.”

“About your drug habit?  Yeah; it keeps me up nights.”

“Angry tonight, aren’t we?” 

Dean rolled his shoulders, craned his neck to look up at the portion of sky directly above him.  There was little light pollution here, but he couldn’t find the brothers.   Just a bear, other patterns around it long forgotten.  It must have been the wrong season.  “You wanna tell me how Sam knows about you?”  He had almost, almost said us, only stopped himself in the last instant.  He couldn’t do it; the implications were too wide, too wrong. 

“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say because you told him?”

“Try again.”

“Not outright, Einstein.  It’s in you, not your words.  You call, you send texts.  You wouldn’t give a teenage girl a run for her money but for _you_ the verbosity’s impressive.  If he didn’t get it from that, I haven’t the faintest.” 

“Right.  It’s all a lucky guess.”

“Is it so hard to believe?  He knows we’re talking.  He knows there’s somewhere you keep going.  I’d imagine he knows, too, that you don’t necessarily come home unscathed.  I’m not really sure where you thought he’d place that combination of events, but I guarantee you he doesn’t think you’re going bowling.” 

“So you had nothing to do with this?  Not a damn thing?” 

“Not a damn thing.”  From the other end of the line, Dean listened to Crowley breathe.  It was a human thing, a pointless thing.  He couldn’t remember if Crowley had always done it so consistently, or if like so much else about him on the blood, that too was new.  “Speak up, squirrel.  Do you believe me?”

“No.”

“Your consistency is always reassuring.”  Crowley sighed, overdramatic.  “I actually won’t be seeing you tonight then, will I?”

“No.” 

“Is he angry?”

“We’re not talkin’ about Sam.”  Not another word, not when saying his name hurt more than it had 24 hours ago because that, that was saying something. 

“As you wish.”

There was too much innocence in his tone for hell, enough for Dean to snap.  “Shut up.  Do you think for a _second_ I could believe that you give one goddamn how he is?”

“Maybe not.  But you _could_ believe that I give a few goddamns how _you_ are.” 

“You’ve got quite the imagination; I’ll give you that.”  And he did, he had to, but there were bits and pieces Dean couldn’t reconcile.  Crowley bandaging his leg, kissing a bruise against the blade of his shoulder, caressing the mark until Dean could no longer feel its dragging pain.  To do those things, no one had held a gun to his head.  No one had clapped him in chains. 

“And you’re a regular ray of sunshine.  What are you boys hunting, anyway?”

“If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.” 

“And I’ll come in and save your ass.”  Crowley was good, too good at putting affection there.  “Well.  I’ll leave you to it then.  Best of luck.”

“Yeah.”  Considering he almost hung up without a word and typically hung up with goodnight, it seemed a good compromise. 

By the time Dean peeled himself off the hood and headed back to the motel, the sky was turning light.  Sam was asleep in the bed farthest from the door, curled on his side like he’d fallen asleep watching for it to open.  Idiot had worn his clothes to bed, too.  It tugged at Dean just beneath his ribs, a sharp pain he looked away to avoid.  It didn’t work; the damage was done. 

He could go over there, maybe put a hand to his brother’s chest to wake him.  They’d have sex and maybe even fall asleep in the same bed; he could have that, if he was willing to take it.  He could have it, but it wouldn’t be enough.  He could take body and blood from Crowley with no further expectations; he could do that, even though it wasn’t the life he’d have chosen given free choice.  With Sam, he couldn’t separate the pieces.  Hunting beside him and sleeping apart was hard enough.  He’d tried for the span of about five seconds, let Sam kiss him right up until he’d felt Sam’s hands against his cheeks. 

He’d always loved those hands, the desperation in Sam’s grip, the way he pulled Dean to him greedy and strong like he just couldn’t get enough.  Like Dean was too well loved to hold lightly. 

No amount of alcohol and carefully constructed detachment could have made Dean able to forget that feeling, to make Sam just a person in his bed instead of everything he inherently was, his little brother, his lover, his one and only choice.  He knew all that long before Sam kissed him, had realized it weeks ago at a time when he was so sure it wouldn’t be a worry, so sure Sam wouldn’t even try.  He knew, and still he’d tried to give it to him because Sam was asking, because Sam’s mouth against his had for a moment left his pain intact but settled his soul in a way Crowley couldn’t reach. 

He tried, and he couldn’t.  Not even for Sam. 

Dean kicked off his shoes, shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across the chair.  The blinds were open, the light of the sunrise beginning to shine in, and he pulled them only after he’d slid his gun from his waistband and his knife from his pocket.   He found his way to his bed in the dark, stumbled only a little before catching himself on his knee on the edge of the mattress.  The gun went to the nightstand, the knife beneath his pillow.  He fell back against it with his clothes still on, the sheets below him. 

The alcohol still burned at his veins, his body settling onto the low end of drunk.  He could still feel the tail end of its effects, enough that he mumbled under his breath, his words directed at the ceiling.  “ ‘m sorry, Sam.”  In the morning(the afternoon, two hours, whenever he woke), he could tell himself there’d still been enough Craig in him to make him talk.  He was borderline enough for that. 

It didn’t matter though, really.  By the cadence of his breath, he knew beyond all doubt that Sam was fast asleep. 

********

There was something satisfying in the way Dean hauled him up by the front of his shirt, rough and quick and so easy, like he weighed nothing at all. 

“Sam?”

Sam winced, pressed his palm to the sharp pain above his eyebrow.  It came away wet, dark with blood.  He felt lightheaded, steadied by the brush of Dean’s knuckles he could feel through his shirt.  “Did you get her?”  The last he’d seen of madremonte’s daughter had been the wildness in her eyes as the rock jutting from her wrist had slammed into his forehead.  The whip had been close at Dean’s feet, close enough that with Sam putting himself between the two of them, Dean should have had the time to reach it. 

“What the hell was that?”  The corner of his eye felt damp and Sam blinked.  The blood was running steady, but he wasn’t surprised.  Head wounds bled freely; he’d learned that when he was four and he tripped into the corner of a motel coffee table.  Dean had pulled him back against his chest, pressed a dry washcloth to his scalp until their dad came back.  “Hey, you still with me?” 

Half, at least.  Sam blinked, pulled Dean back into focus.  “Yeah.  ‘m fine.” 

“Goddamn moron is what you are.  She could’ve killed you.” 

“Maybe, but I knew you’d take her down if I gave you the chance.  Besides,”  Sam licked his lips, took a second to catch his breath.  “She was coming after you.  I had to do something.  You had the whip; I just made the best move I could.” 

Dean’s lips pressed thin, but there was something in his eyes, something more hunted than predatory.  Sam hoped, tried to crush it.  He couldn’t dare to believe that Dean understood all he’d said and all he hadn’t, not until there was certain sign. 

“Come on; get up.”  He tried, brought one leg up and gathered it under him but it wobbled, and Dean shifted into him, on arm going around Sam’s back to support him.  “Easy; I got you.  Come on; let’s get you to the car.” 

He didn’t speak a word on the way, just tightened his grip beneath Sam’s arm when his knees threatened to buckle.  At the car Dean opened the back door, eased him in before going back to the trunk for the first aid kit.  Coming back, he crouched down beside the open door and pressed his hand to the wound, a square of cloth against his palm.  They were close, like this, closer still when Dean reached out with his free hand to brush away the hair sticking against Sam’s cheek.  His brother’s hands smelled of blood and honeysuckle. 

“What you did back there?  That was ten kinds of stupid.”  Dean spoke quiet, his eyes on the weeds crushed beneath their feet. 

Maybe, maybe it was, but he’d had his reasons.

Dean cleared his throat.  “Look, I don’t think…this thing, with the mark, it’s done something to me.”  Sam could’ve pointed out at least a few something’s, but he let Dean finish.  “I’ve taken a few hits that…hell, I don’t know.  I think it’d take a lot to take me down at this point, and for the most part we’re not up against things with that kinda juice.” 

“Almost all the lore gives the bearer of the mark immortality.  It’s a side effect.” 

“All I’m saying is—“

“What you’re saying, Dean, is that I shouldn’t worry about you dying.  And I’m saying that wasn’t the point.” 

Dean pulled away, rose to stand.  The square of cloth remained stuck to Sam’s wound.  “Put pressure on that.  Can’t do shit until it stops.” 

Somehow, that rejection stung more than the kiss Dean had turned away from back in Iowa.  Sam’s eyes burned, and he turned away to hide the look he knew he had to have, the sharp loss that came from feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.  He pressed his knuckles to the cloth, rough pressure that hurt where Dean’s touch had rested like balm. 

Dean drifted away, maybe by a half dozen steps before he turned and came back.  “You think I don’t know what this is?”

“Yeah, Dean, it’s pretty clear you have no idea what—“

“Oh I know exactly what this is.  See you forget, sometimes, but I’ve been watching you your _entire_ life, and I know every look on your face, Sam.  Every last one, and this, it’s about the look you had when I came back to the bunker that morning, or last night when you saw this.”  Sam wouldn’t have had to look to know, but he did all the same.  Dean had jerked his collar down, opposite the side of his tattoo where there was a long scab just under his collarbone, bruised around the edges.  He looked, and Dean let out a short breath, too close to laughter.  “Yeah, see, there it is.  I know what that is; I know it cold.  That’s a girl across the bar who won’t stop staring when you think she should, or that guy I picked up in Miami the year before you went to Stanford.”

Sam’s anger flared.  His hand dropped away, gave him a clear line of vision to look up at this brother.  “You’re wrong.”

“Right.  Whatever, but if you don’t stop that bleeding we’re going to the hospital and I think we’ve both had enough of those, so.”  He gestured at Sam’s hands, half turned to walk away. 

Sam pulled himself up with the car door, only a little dizzy, enough that he held on once he gained his feet.  “Dean, listen to me.”

“Sit down before you fall down.” 

“I’m not jealous.”

Dean’s laughter was cutting, but at least he stopped, at least he turned around.  “You are lying straight out of your ass.” 

That much, at least, was true.  “Alright, maybe I am, maybe I’m lying about the jealousy but I’m only trying to get you to hear the truth about everything else, and the truth is, you are scaring the hell out of me.  You’re gone days at a time, you don’t tell me where you’re going not even though you know I know it’s with him.  Last week you didn’t just kill that demon in Texas you practically slaughtered him and I’d be willing to bet you didn’t even notice.”  More than a bet, he was certain of it.  Dean hadn’t even washed the blood off his hands until Sam had reminded him they couldn’t leave like that, covered in the blood of a man the police were sure to find.  “Whatever is going on with you and Crowley, he’s using you, man, and you can’t even see it!”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, studied Sam with an intensity he couldn’t decipher.   “So this is all about my safety, or is that you think I’m compromised, here?  I guess that would fit, us being hunting partners and all.” 

“God, will you drop the bullshit for five seconds and _listen_ to me?  I mean is it that impossible for you to believe that I just want my brother back?” 

Inside his jacket pocket, Dean’s phone rang.  He pulled it out and Sam closed his eyes in disbelief, leaned heavy into the door.  It was Crowley, it had to be Crowley and Dean was actually going to answer it right now, with Sam not three feet away and—

And he wasn’t, he didn’t.  Sam heard the clunk of the phone as Dean sat it down on top of the Impala, deliberate and slow.  When he opened his eyes Dean was right there, just on the other side of the door.  He didn’t look welcoming, exactly, but he wasn’t answering, and he wasn’t leaving.

“You were saying?” 

“I was saying I’m sorry.”  His voice dipped into it, heavy and thick with the realization that of all he’d said, had those words actually come out before now?  Of all he’d tried, he wasn’t sure.  “Dean, I chose to stop the trials.  That was me.  And…I have to be honest, it messed me up to think that I’d…prop open the door to hell just to stay with you.  But that’s the choice I made, and you didn’t force me into it.  And whether it was wrong or not, the more I’ve thought about it, I know I’d do it again.”

Dean’s phone rang again, rattling against the metal.  Dean silenced it, and waited.

 “So I guess I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d ended up in that hospital, Dean.  I can say what choice I think I’d have made but the truth is, I wouldn’t have let you go.  And if I hadn’t taken what Gadreel offered, there’s a good chance I’d have done something that might have turned out a hell of a lot worse.  And I’d hate it, but so long as you were with me, eventually, I could live with that.  Give me time, and I can live with this.  But watching you turn into this…this pawn of Crowley’s?  Losing you to him?  That’s on me, and I can’t live with it.  I won’t let that go.” 

“You won’t, huh?”  Unlike the questions he’d asked before, the malice had bled out of this one.  Dean silenced the phone again, let his hand come to rest along the top of the door next to Sam’s.  Sam could feel it there, the sensation of faint radiating heat. 

“No.” 

“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, you know that?”

“Yeah, well I’ve heard it’s inherited.” 

The twist to the corner of Dean’s mouth wasn’t a smile, but it was close.  “Decent assumption.”  Dean cleared his throat, watched the clench of Sam’s fingers beside his.  “Sam, I’m exhausted, man.  All the shit we’ve been through is one thing, but all this with you…I mean this was hard enough, giving you up.  I don’t think I could do it again.”

“You won’t have to.”

“Sam,-“

Sam covered his brother’s hand with his.  If it was too hard, if the way he leaned into it against the edge of the metal was too much, Dean didn’t make a sound.  “You gave me your word.  Past, present, and future, you said that if you had to choose, your answer wouldn’t change.”  Until now, he’d been afraid to bring it up, afraid to ask and discover just how much had changed.  He tightened his grip.  “So choose.”

Dean pressed his hand to Sam’s forehead, so gentle that Sam’s breath hitched.  This was the part of his brother that was all his and no one else’s; that much he had to believe.  Dean’s eyes were bright, a green unparalleled by the daughter of the forest they’d just taken down.  They looked at Sam like staring into the sun, a reverence he didn’t deserve and never had. 

“That’s no choice, Sammy.  That ain’t even a question.”   On top of the car, the phone rang.  Dean let out a heavy breath.  “But I’ve gotta take this in case the idiot’s about to get himself killed; I’m sorry.  Will you get up front and put some pressure on that damn thing before you bleed out?” 

Sam wanted to argue, he did, but it had taken just about all the strength he had to stay on his feet this long.  His head was pounding, his vision blurring.  He’d been out at least a minute or so right after he was knocked off his feet; there was no guarantee he wouldn’t black out again.  He swayed, tried to step away from the door only to feel Dean’s hand against his chest, fisting in his shirt and holding him steady.

“Hey, easy.  Forget it, just lay down in the back seat, ok?  I’m gonna take you to the hospital; get you checked out just in case.”  Dean’s hands guided him to the seat and he let them, lay back until the back of his head touched leather warm from the sun.  It was soft and familiar, though too hot to be comforting.  He felt hot enough already. 

“ ‘s just stitches, Dean.  Maybe a concussion.  But Crowley—“

“I’m gonna handle it; it’s probably nothing.  You rest, and you don’t move that hand, and we can get you patched up.”

He was too damn tired to argue.  Sam tucked his legs into the car, curled awkwardly into the floorboard.  His door slammed, knocking against his knees, and then Dean’s.  From the front seat, he heard Dean finally answer the phone as the engine came alive. 

“Whatever the hell you want you’ve got exactly five minutes.” 

********

The Winchesters may never have had a run of good luck, exactly, but sometimes they were granted small mercies.  This time, one came in the form of a mild concussion and stitches, no admittance to the hospital, no sitting by Sam’s bed until he woke up.  As far as small mercies went, it felt pretty enormous. 

They packed Sam off with drugs and instructions he wouldn’t follow, and Dean took him home in a silence that lasted until they reached their motel just on the edge of Paint Rock, Alabama.  He killed the engine, shifted his hands on the wheel while he formed the words.

_I have to go.  He needs my help._

_He’s in trouble, Sam._

_I need to do this.  I need you to understand, I need to do this._

“This thing with Crowley, there’s a lot about it you don’t know.” 

“So tell me.” 

The pit in Dean’s stomach tightened.  He pulled the flask he’d retrieved from the church parking lot out of his pocket, hesitated before he took a sip.  He’d replaced it with Jameson, but he missed the Craig.  He missed it, and he hated it. 

“I don’t know if I can, but I need you to believe this much at least.”  Dean set the flask down to rest against the inside of his thigh.  The mark was burning, a tingling fire along his arm that he itched to quench.  “He has helped me in ways even I don’t really understand, but he chose to do it, and he didn’t have to.  I’m not saying he’s not a raging dick; I haven’t forgotten that.  All I’m saying is he’s different, and he’s done things for me I wouldn’t have expected.  I don’t know if it’s all the blood or what the hell it is, but he _is_ different, and I do owe him enough to watch his back.  I need you to understand that.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“Exactly what it sounds like, nothing more.  The guy needs my help, and I owe him that much, so I will go and bail his ass out of this mess, and then I’ll come home.  That’s it.”  And that’d be a fun conversation to have, putting Crowley off with the blade still in his hand and Crowley pulling on him, tucking his fingers to hook under Dean’s belt.  A hell of a hard thing, but Sam had asked him to choose, and what choice did he have?  There had only ever been one answer to any question of his desires, his needs, one answer all his life. 

Sam was looking at him, studying him like there were words he couldn’t quite articulate. 

“You’re just gonna have to trust me, Sam.  The rest of it, it’s done, but this is something I have to do.” 

“And me and you?” 

“We’re…”  Not ok, not yet, not for a long time.  But they were a _we_ , at least, and that was new.  “If it’s really what you want—“

“It is.”

“—then we’ll figure it out.  But there’s a lot here, Sam.  I mean, I’m having a hard enough time believing you right now, and I know you sure as hell don’t trust me, but if we’re gonna do this we have to start somewhere, and that needs to be you giving me enough faith that if I say I’m coming back, I will.” 

Sam didn’t speak, instead leaned in and cupped Dean’s jaw in his hand.  Sam’s kiss was hungry, deep and filthy.  This was Sam after months without him, or it was Sam marking what was his, or it was both.  Either way, Dean was too tired of holding out to care.  His hand slipped beneath his brothers coat, under his shirt to get a grip on skin before he pulled Sam closer, kissing back, gaining ground until they paused, panting.  The taste on his tongue was Sam, undiluted.  No imagined nuance in the tang of blood, no dream he’d woken from to find himself still tangled in Crowley’s sheets.  Just Sam. 

Dean tilted his head forward, his bottom lip brushing Sam’s.  He didn’t need any further invitation. 

********

_"Therefore whoever kills Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold."  And the Lord appointed a sign for Cain, so that no one finding him would slay him.- Genesis 4:15_

********

For over a week, Sam had read and reread the text he’d gotten the Sunday morning Dean had come back to the motel in Alabama. 

**Well played, Sam.**

He had called Crowley the next day, out behind a gas station while Dean filled up.  He had expected to hear in Crowley at least some measure of fear.  Instead, his calm was chilling. 

_You took this hand, moose, no denying it, but this is a long game we’re in for, and I can afford to wait.  See, to be completely honest, it doesn’t really matter to me if you have him for now.  It’s an inconvenience, but I’m patient, and our boy here is going to outlive you.  He’ll be heartbroken.  And you’ll be a dead old man.  Or a dead young one.  And I’ll be here._

If Sam had his way, that future was one they’d never reach.  There had to be a way to get that mark off his brother’s arm and he would find it.  A way to remove the mark, or a way to stay with him.  (And that had played across his mind, he couldn’t deny it.  The king of hell, he held more than the title, he held Dean’s chain and all the cards.  Someday, the throne might have a vacancy.)  Both questions were serious, eating at him; neither could be his priority just yet.  First, there was Dean himself.  If they could find their equilibrium, the rest would follow. 

Sam hesitated just outside Dean’s door, let his hand settle flat against the heavy oak.  They’d been on better footing since Alabama, undeniably, but they’d still slept apart.  His fault mostly, or so it seemed, though Dean certainly hadn’t offered outright.  The reason Sam had given himself every night when he came to bed was the memory of Dean’s rejection in Iowa, the sharpness in the way he’d turned away.  If Dean wasn’t ready, Sam could wait until he was. 

That was his prepared statement, the answer he was comfortable with.  In the middle of the night, awake and thinking, he could feel the traces of darker, deeper thoughts.  If Dean had been with Crowley in the time since they’d come home, he’d bear the marks of it. If he went to Dean, there was at least a fair chance he’d see, he’d know.  It might be better not to know. 

The realization had driven him here, at Dean’s door at a quarter to three because about some things, Dean was absolutely right.  He didn’t trust that Dean hadn’t fucked Crowley, but he wanted to.  If they were going to start anywhere, a little faith was going to have to be given, not earned.  On both sides.   

Deciding was half the battle.  Actually knocking was another matter entirely. 

“Sam?” 

He had to have heard Sam shuffle out into the hall.  That, or he’d been awake already and he’d seen the shadow come across the bottom of his door.  Sam’s mouth went dry.  “Ah…yeah.”  So much for eloquence. 

“What is it?”

“Is it alright if I…”  God, he felt so awkward, a stupid, confusing kind of awkward.  He had never had to ask Dean for anything like this; there’d never been any question of his welcome.  Even as a kid, he’d never asked to curl up against his chest when he was frightened or cold.  He’d turned around, and Dean had been there, arms open.  Suddenly decisive, Sam pushed open the door. 

Dean lay on his back, blinking at the shock of fluorescent light spilling in.  “Jesus, will you get in and shut the door?” 

His voice was scratchy, a close approximation of the residue of sleep.  Sam knew better; he’d heard Dean play dad and Bobby with a tone like it a hundred times or more.  He’d been wide awake, maybe waiting for this, maybe too caught up in something else.  Sam pushed the door closed behind him, casting the room back into almost complete darkness.  He knew his way around Dean’s room at least as well as his own, and he reached the bed in a few steps.  The blankets were already pulled down for him. 

He found Dean by touch, skimming across the top of the blankets until he found his brother’s arm.  He curled his hand around Dean’s wrist, a loose grip. 

“I wasn’t sure if…”  _If you wanted me here; if you’d tell me to go.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to come._  

“It’s ok, Sam.” 

Sam’s hand travelled careful up his arm, half casual in his search.  It didn’t take long before his fingers hit the mark of Cain, raised in angry welts just below Dean’s elbow.  The skin beneath Sam’s fingertips felt fever hot, to the point that on instinct his hand would have shied away.  He pressed it closer instead. 

“It feels like it’s on fire.”  As alone as they were down here, Sam still whispered.

“Well, it is the mark of hell.”  Too offhand, too casual.  To hear Dean answer, they could’ve been talking about a bruise on his shin. 

Sam swallowed, his throat tight.  “Does it hurt?” 

“Nah, not really.  You get used to it.  Hell, I mostly only notice it when I have the blade.  Most of the time, it’s just one hell of a scar.”  It was a lie in part, though Sam couldn’t tell how much.  Sam stroked his thumb across the surface, memorizing the shape.  There was no part of Dean’s body he didn’t know, but for this, this mark of another force that had claimed his brother for everyone to see.   Castiel’s mark had branded his shoulder, now Cain his arm.  To look at Dean’s body, Sam could be seen nowhere. 

Dean sighed, and Sam froze. 

“Sorry.  I should stop, I—“

“No.  No, it’s alright.  It’s good.  Your hand’s just cold, that’s all.  ‘s pretty nice, actually.” 

If Sam’s hand _was_ cold, it might have made him feel better.  If it felt cold to Dean, that meant he was feeling only in contrast to the fire that seemed to burn in the muscles and veins beneath the mark itself.  Nothing could burn that hot without pain. 

Sam scooted closer, enough that when he leaned down he could kiss Dean’s temple, his forehead, the corner of his eye.  Everywhere his lips went, Dean tilted toward them.  The tangle of Dean’s fingers in his hair was abrupt, unanticipated, but welcome.  He pulled Sam to him in an open kiss, exploring Sam’s mouth with a careful ease he hadn’t had the last time.  Dean was skilled, he always been, and Sam moaned at the clever twist of his tongue. 

Their lips parted, Dean murmuring against the side of his mouth.  “Sammy.  God, _Sammy._ ”

“Yeah, Dean.” 

As he kissed his way down Dean's neck to the soft collar of his shirt his hand left Dean’s arm to slide underneath it, against his belly.  His brother said his name still, like a plea and a curse, an inconstant mantra until Sam quieted him with the return of his mouth to Dean’s.  The vibration of the word felt almost as good against the back of Sam’s throat as it sounded.  Almost, but not quite. 

They stripped quick but stilted, Dean hesitating the moment before tugging off his shirt, again before kicking his boxers down.  Sam noticed both, and mentioned neither.  Instead, he curled his body around his brother’s as they began to trade kisses, and he learned.  Most of the cuts were on his arms or just under his collar, though Sam felt the edges of a mark on his hip that felt like the scratch of a scab, the tenderness of bruised tissue.  Sam’s grip shifted from searching to firm before he could think, hauling Dean’s hips back against the press of his cock.  His thumb dug into the bruise and he meant to let go, he did, but Dean whined and gasped his name, and so he held on tighter. 

His back was pressed to Sam’s chest, sweat starting to pool between them.  Sam nuzzled into the back of Dean’s neck, traced its line with soft kisses and nips and the lap of his tongue.  His hips rolled against Dean’s and Dean’s thighs spread for him, his right hooking back over Sam’s legs to draw him in. 

“Do it.  Go on, Sam; do it.” 

He sounded a wreck, full of challenge and lust and resignation.  There was a part of Dean, size uncertain, that still saw this as an exercise in branding, nothing more.  There had to be, for him to be so sure that Sam would take him like this, no preparation, strung tight and trembling in a way that seemed too close to the flinch before a strike.  Sam buried his face between Dean’s shoulders, breathing him in, his cock half softening between them.  He could stop, and they could talk, and in another day or so they would end up right back here. 

Or he could do what Dean wouldn’t expect, answer C. 

Sam tucked his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, lips brushing the shell of his ear as he spoke to him low and soft and certain.  “Not tonight.  Not like this.” 

“It’s fine; you can-oh _fuck_ , Sammy.”  That was the curl of his hand around Dean’s cock, a slow stroke that made him jolt in the cage of Sam’s arms.  

“Yeah, that’s it.  Just like this.”  All pleasure, no pain, no expectation of motive, just the way Dean cried out when Sam turned his head a moment to mouth wet and gentle against his shoulder.  He set an even pace with his strokes, hummed his approval into Dean's hair when he began to match Sam's rhythm, thrusting into his grip.  Sam cupped the head of Dean’s cock, gratified by the dampness that beaded against his palm.  His own hips snapped forward.  He had gone hard again, a slick trail left from his thrusts against the curve of Dean’s ass, the back of his thighs.  Dean had been close when he started, he could feel it, could feel him sliding closer to letting go in the slight twist of his spine, the breaths he seemed to skip.  “It’s ok, Dean.  Go on.  Come for me.” 

There was a startled sound, a choked cry as if the act of spilling over Sam’s fingers surprised him.  It shouldn’t have.  Sam slipped his hand between the two of them, and he jerked himself off quick and messy, his hand still coated sticky from his brother’s cock. 

Dean recovered with a jolt, sudden but too slow to properly give Sam a hand.  Still it was Dean that pushed him over the edge, reaching back behind him to clutch at Sam’s hip, to hold him so close that when he came he painted Dean’s back with it. 

Weak and out of breath, Sam moved to flop onto his back, froze halfway through the motion when Dean’s arm crossed over his body to latch onto Sam’s. 

“Don’t go.” 

It was so quiet, hardly more than a breath.  Sam licked his lips.  “I’m not.”  He rubbed Dean’s hip soothingly until he let go, until Sam could sit up and fish around in the dark for a shirt that felt like Dean’s to wipe their bodies into some semblance of clean.  When he finished he draped heavy against Dean’s back, his arm resting across Dean’s ribs.  Sam’s leg slipped between Dean’s and they were properly intertwined, one mass beneath the blankets.  Dean breathed a little easier. 

Dean had expected Sam to hurt him; there was no better way to frame it.  He had expected it, and he’d taken Sam into his bed anyway.  Eventually, they were going to have to talk about that. 

The chill of drying sweat had settled over them by the time Dean shifted even a little, melting back into Sam’s embrace. 

“I think there’s something wrong with me, Sam.  I see things different now, it’s…I don’t know.  Something’s happenin’ to me.  Sometimes I can see it and sometimes I can’t, but I can’t stop it.” 

Sam kissed his brother’s shoulder, sought Dean’s hand until he found it and Dean held on.  “I know.  But we’ll figure it out.” 


End file.
